Led by Pastor Michaels, we pray the judges will award us at least a silver gilt. We dress the reredos with Rose of Sharon, twist love-lies-bleeding around the cross. But the Plymouth Brethren speckle their pulpit with Star of Bethlehem; the font at St Olave’s has pondweed and ducklings. Across town, the Methodists go full Garden of Eden, complete with soft-toy serpent, optional fig leaves, and a fun-sized Golden Delicious for every child. After the Lutherans triumph with ceiling-height Cedars of Lebanon and a smokeless burning bush, it’s clear the secret’s in the soil. Thankfully, old Mr. and Mrs. Rogers declare their readiness to live in the light of eternity, so after evensong we carry them through the gloaming to the back of the churchyard. Pastor Michaels anoints them with oil of hyssop, then we hug them, certain we’ll be reunited when we, too are called home. Once they’re sleeping, we cover them in Solomon’s Seal and lilies of the field, in hedge mustard and shepherd’s purse. And there they stay, mulching into the greensward, while we pray for new shoots and another run at festival glory.